


They Were Lovers

by amarriageoftrueminds



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Coda, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Missing Scene, Murder Husbands, Tome-wan, kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3932683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarriageoftrueminds/pseuds/amarriageoftrueminds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>coda to the end of Tome-wan; dark murder husbands' first-kiss by the fire.</b>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <span class="small"><br/>      <span class="small">So I'm doing a grand rewatch of Hannibal seasons 1 and 2 in time for season 3 and I get right up to Kō No Mono when I suddenly stop and for no discernible reason write 1,000 words of Tome-wan fic out of nowhere! hopefully it feels like a realistic/plausible first kiss? *for a given value of nightmare ravenstag-people, I mean* (</span><i>Eagle-eyed fannibals may recognise a line that was cut from the scripts</i>.)</span><br/>    <br/>  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	They Were Lovers

 

Hannibal finishes his sketch, the fire burns low and Will goes blind from staring. At some point he steps into his old skin and imagines a spark spitting out and catching him, igniting, crawling up his leg, smoke pouring down his throat like acid. He is rolling downhill in a wheelchair, with his dogs chasing along behind him, yelping, on fire.

_No no no no._

He pushes the ends of his long fingers against his closed eyelids, makes an involuntary sound like a groan. Tipping.

“I need safety, Hannibal. Stability.”

_What are you expecting, exactly?_

Scrape of Hannibal’s chair getting up.

“You’re safe, Will.”

He comes to stand beside him, drawn to distress, vulnerability; attracted.

_Shit._

You don’t bait a shark with your own blood.

Hannibal puts a hand on his shoulder.

Once upon a time Will would’ve tensed up, tried to draw aside, not liking being touched. Now he turns, darts a glance up at Hannibal. Just that tiny moment of eye-contact is enough; the admonition become a plea, and Hannibal pulls him into a hug.

A big warm hand on the plane of his back, burning through the fabric of his shirt, another on the back of his head.

It is astonishingly comforting.

His face is turned to the room, away from the fire, tiger stripes of heat licking up his spine, looking outwards at emptiness from a place of sanctuary, the way he peers from the nest of blankets in his bed.

A ship on the sea.

Hannibal is _rocking_ him a little from side to side, a swaying parabola of motion from his broad shoulders, and Will knows with a sudden, chilling clarity that he did this exact same thing for Abigail.

In his ear:

“ _I’ve got you.”_

A child-like whisper, too smooth to feel the rumble in Hannibal’s chest. It’s meant to be comforting but it, too, sends a spike of panic through his heart.

He retreats a little, bows his head, eyes shut in concentration, like the pendulum starting to swing, his pulse dim and distant.

In his head, Jack’s voice.

_Will. Remember where you are._

He sighs, mimics Hannibal to himself like a mantra.

“You’ve got me.”

He is too tall for Hannibal to comfortably rest his chin on the top of Will’s head, so instead he presses his cheek against Will’s temple, a prickle of day-old growth against his soft skin.

With their limbs locked, hands trapped, unable to display affection, they nuzzle at each other like dumb animals, like lions greeting. Texture of temples rasping against each other like the skin on a pair of palms as two hands slide back and forth.

Hannibal’s stubble accidentally snags the cut in Will’s hairline. He winces, and though Hannibal can’t see that he seems to sense it, and turns his face to-

Will feels his eyebrow rise involuntarily in surprise at the touch of wetness on his forehead, an apology-kiss.

“ _Mmm_.”

His chin juts now, his head rising, a question perched on his lips, but this means that the next wet kiss lands on his cheekbone rather than his temple; now they are cheek to cheek, the roughness of Hannibal’s stubble softened by the strands of his beard.

The lions grow still.

At the same moment he notices his pulse is back, thundering, he is suddenly, acutely aware that he can smell Hannibal’s cologne; feel his breath deep in his broad chest. Realises that the hand on his head is stroking, tickling the curls around his ear, the nape of his neck; that Hannibal is _watching_ him.

Hannibal cocks his head.

The warm press of breath on the corner of his mouth, and then the lips he parted to speak are being ... mapped ...

Carefully, reverently, a single fingertip tracing over carved marble. Less a kiss than an exploration.

Excitement is beating on his chest like a cold medallion. His eyes are open but half-lidded, are staring but unseeing; Hannibal’s are open too. His lips are so wet that Will can feel the silver residue they leave behind, evaporating when they move from spot to spot. And yet their touch is as gentle as insect wings, prickling like a spider’s footsteps across his yielding mouth until he is hyper-sensitive to it.

It all feels new and terrifying, and wrong, how touching himself for the first time felt wrong.

He is being savoured.

And he lets it happen.

It’s only when he feels the brush of a tongue across his teeth, the crush of gums against his lips, that he pulls back, saliva clicking.

“ _What’re you doing...?’_

He asks almost airily, frowning his anger harder than he feels it, defensive.

“Will...?’

Hannibal is watching his face. If Will looked at him now he’d see how blank his eyes are, how blacker than a circling shark’s.

“Are you uncomfortable?’ Hannibal asks, sullen.

“No... _Yes_.” Will answers before he can stop himself. He can feel his expressions flickering. “Alana-’

“What is there for Alana to know?’ Hannibal says, in that funny way he has of putting the stresses in wrong places; making a question a statement. “She already suspects us to be guilty of something far worse.”

Will huffs, face cruelly mobile. “Worse than adultery?’ Dripping sarcasm.

“We’re not married, Will.”

No answer for that one.

He has his gaze averted; looking out into the room for something else to anchor him.

His watchful eyes alight upon the drawing.

“You want...”

He doesn’t really mean that to be a question but Hannibal takes it as one; draws a shallow breath, swallows, and answers simply.

“Yes.”

An answer to a question he didn’t need to ask.

Finally he faces Hannibal.

His dark eyes are open, honest, completely dead. The monster on the inside is looking out at him. Terrifying. Alien. Beautiful.

Will knows his own eyes are fixed and clear. Without fear.

_Yes._

Overhead their antlers weave an arbor of dark branches as Hannibal leans in to taste him again, and Will ...

Will opens wide.

 

 

.

.

.

.


End file.
